"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." – Psalm 34:18
I think what people want to believe is that if everything is perfect—the perfect job, the perfect spouse, house, and dog, the perfect children—then you'll be happy. Maybe.
But no one is ever happy all the time. Happiness is fleeting, and without sadness, you can’t truly appreciate happiness. Without experiencing tragedy, you can’t truly understand pure joy. Life isn’t just a roller coaster—it’s a freakin’ funhouse, a carnival, and one of those spinning rides that make you want to puke. That’s what life is like. A goddamn carnival ride. Mine feels like it is anyway.
This one is hard to talk about because I didn’t answer her last call. It was November 2013.
Robin had called to talk about a movie she had just watched, Blue Is The Warmest Color. It’s a movie about exploring sexuality, falling in love, and experiencing heartbreak and heart ache—the kind that changes you. Robin and I talked a lot when I lived in California, and we kept talking when I moved to Minnesota. She was one of the only friends who braved a Minnesota winter to come visit me. She knew from just my voice on the phone that I wasn’t doing well, that I was homesick, that I needed someone to show up. And she showed up.
She loved tennis and went to the US Open every year. She asked me to go with her that year. I told her I’d see if it worked with my schedule. I didn’t go.
And that was the year she took her life.
I knew. I knew she wasn’t doing well. I knew it in the way she spoke, in the silences between her words. But I was a thousand miles away, and I didn’t know what I could do to help. I listened. I talked. I tried my best to be there for her.
And yet, it still wasn’t enough.
I saved the last message she left me. I listen to it sometimes just to hear her voice.
I don’t talk about Robin enough. Maybe because I still feel guilt. Maybe because I still can’t believe she’s gone. But I know she’s gone. Because if she were here, we’d be on the phone discussing how fucked up the world is right now.
God, I’ve had so much loss in my life, I don’t even know how I get through the day sometimes.
But I do. I always do.
My world is not the same since she left. It is a struggle to make sense of the nonsense, but I persist. Sometimes I think I try to live a good life because that’s what she’d want. Maybe I’m just hoping to find some way to fill the void of her friendship. But it doesn’t work like that.
The void stays.
The missing stays.
Maybe I just ignore it.
I want to believe that her essence, her spirit, her energy—her ancient universal dust—has moved on to the next life, the next dimension, some space-time continuum where she’s happy. Where she’s no longer in pain.
I want to believe that.
But my realist mind just thinks it’s emptiness. That she is gone, and there’s nothing but this stupid void of nothingness.
But still. We carry on.
We carry on the memories of our loved ones.
Their hearts.
Their names.
Their love.
I still look at my phone, hoping her name will pop up. I know it won’t. I know it never will.
And yet, the world keeps turning.
Round and round.
There’s so much more I could say about Robin, and yet, I can’t.
My feelings are tangled. My heart is heavy.
I struggle not to let the grief spill out like a dam breaking after a heavy rainstorm.
I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse to love people so deeply when you know they leave.
But I do know this. Our friendship and loving her was worth it.
And that’s what I will carry.
Lenten Reflection: The Love That Stays
Lent is a season of reflection, of grief, of loss—but also of hope.
Psalm 34:18 reminds us: "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
Grief is the weight of love that had nowhere to go. But love itself never dies.
Robin is gone. But love stays.
Her kindness, her laughter, her friendship—they remain in every memory, every moment I carry forward.
And maybe that’s what faith is. Not answers, not certainty.
Just the choice to keep loving, keep remembering, and keep moving forward.
Even when it hurts.
Life isn’t about flawless filters, curated perfection, or pretending we’re fine when we’re not.
Life is about loving people while they’re here.
And honoring them when they’re gone.
I honor Robin by remembering her.
By living a life that still has room for joy.
By carrying her love forward.
She loved mint chocolate chip ice cream. On her birthday, April 4th, I’ll eat some in her honor. I hope you will too.
Love stays.
Always.
"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." – Isaiah 43:18-19
I’m trying to sit in my sadness and figure out how to move on. I want to eventually not feel sad anymore. And honestly? It f#cking sucks to be sad and disappointed all the time. I want to feel different.
Psychotherapists say we should have some kind of routine during times of shambles, but not necessarily the same schedule we used to have. It’s what they call a “the world is in shambles” routine (I might have made that up). I used to make to-do lists for my day, but now I mostly just stare into the void and wonder when this nightmare will end.
That said, I take a shower every day (mostly). It helps me feel human—less like a sloth drifting through existential dread. The other day, though, I was so lost in my head that I think I shampooed with body wash. It didn’t lather right, so I shampooed again just to be sure. That’s kind of how I’ve been feeling lately. The constant sense of forgetting something, but not knowing what.
And yet—it’s not like I’m doing anything or going anywhere important. I’m just trying to figure this out like the rest of us. The funny thing is, by the time we settle into some kind of rhythm with the state of the world, another disaster hits, and we’re thrown into chaos all over again. Ever since the pandemic, I’ve felt feral in public. Confused by how quickly things went “back to normal,” but also by how fast we slipped back into our cruel way of life: trapped in capitalism, toxic individualism, and collective exhaustion.
I used to have an ex who would cry after sex. Let’s call her Nelly to protect her identity. She is also the same ex who broke up with me to be with another woman. To this day, I can’t tell you what she found more appealing about the other person—I mean, I am a beacon of joy.
The breakup was not smooth. It was one of those emotionally destructive back-and-forth situations that leave you wondering why you even tried to hold onto something already broken. But I was 21 and just starting to become very familiar with rejection and disappointment.
Fast forward four years. I’m at a bar in Walnut Creek, CA. The Bay Area is a vast land where exes can disappear into the void forever—until, of course, they don’t.
Once in a blue moon, you run into them. Maybe at Pride, or some other massive event where thousands of people are present, and yet, the one person you’re actively avoiding is somehow the one you end up face-to-face with. That night, it happened. Nelly was there. The bar wasn’t that busy. And just like that, she came up and started talking to me. She looked mostly the same—except for her tragic Karen haircut, the kind that seems ready to demand to speak to a manager at any moment.
And then, the most unexpected thing happened.
She apologized for how she treated me. She told me she was sorry for breaking my heart.
It had been four years. But the universe works on its own damn timeline.
I still remember exactly what I said: “It’s water under the bridge. It’s been four years. And thank you for apologizing—that’s really big of you. Let me buy you a drink.”
Can you believe that? I actually bought her a drink.
We might have tried to stay in touch after that, but nothing ever really came from it. And that was fine. I wasn’t about to go back down that broken road. Lesson learned.
At the time, I might have felt vindicated. But looking back now? I realize something: Maybe there is no real satisfaction in being right about being wronged. Did it feel good to get an apology? Sure. But what I really would have preferred was to be treated right from the beginning. And that’s the thing about healing—it doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t undo the hurt. But it does allow us to move forward, to grow, and to leave behind what no longer serves us.
Lenten Reflection
Lent is about transformation—letting go of the past so we can make space for something new.
Isaiah 43:18-19 reminds us: "Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!"
Some things do not need to be carried any further. Some wounds do not need to be reopened. Some roads do not need to be walked again.
The lesson? Keep the faith, embrace change, and trust that something new is on the way.
Healing isn’t linear. Some days, it looks like forgiving the past. On other days, it looks like shampooing your hair twice because you forgot you already did it.
Either way, we keep moving forward.
Lent is about learning to trust that forward is enough.
Take care of yourself and take care of each other.
Updated: Mar 10, 2025
For centuries, biblical scripture has been used as both a tool of liberation and a weapon of oppression. The same texts that speak of love, justice, and mercy have also been twisted to justify slavery, colonialism, misogyny, and the oppression of LGBTQ+ people. Entire communities have been cast into the margins under the false claim that their existence is incompatible with faith.
Today, we see scripture being weaponized against trans and queer people, used to fuel policies that strip them of rights, dignity, and safety. From bans on gender-affirming care to laws restricting LGBTQ+ books and curriculum, religious rhetoric is often at the center of these attacks. But the truth is, faith has always been a source of strength for the marginalized—and when we look at scripture with justice in mind, we see not condemnation, but a call to resist oppression.
On this First Sunday of Lent, the traditional reading is Matthew 4:1–11, which recounts the Temptation of Christ in the wilderness. It’s a passage about resisting manipulation, standing firm in identity, and rejecting power that comes at the cost of integrity—themes deeply relevant to the struggles for justice today.
Matthew 4:1–11 — Resisting Oppression in the Wilderness
Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness, fasting, vulnerable, and alone. The devil tempted Him three times, trying to manipulate Him into proving His worth, abandoning His mission, and seeking power at the expense of truth. Each of these temptations mirrors the struggles faced by marginalized people today.
The Temptation to Prove One’s Worth "If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread." (Matthew 4:3)
The devil demands that Jesus prove His divinity. Likewise, trans and queer people are often told they must justify their existence—that they must be "good enough," "palatable enough," or "respectable enough" to deserve basic human rights. But our worth is not up for debate. Jesus refuses to play this game, and so should we.
The Temptation to Seek Acceptance through Submission "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down..." (Matthew 4:6)
This temptation mirrors the false promise of conditional love that many LGBTQ+ people hear from religious institutions—“We accept you, but only if you suppress who you are.” Jesus refuses to entertain this lie. His response reminds us that true faith is about standing firm in our identity, not seeking approval from those who would harm us.
The Temptation to Compromise for Power "All this I will give you," [the devil] said, "if you will bow down and worship me." (Matthew 4:9)
This is the temptation of assimilation—to trade truth for comfort, to shrink ourselves for safety. Politicians and religious leaders try to divide marginalized communities, offering security to some if they abandon others. But justice is collective. As Jesus rejects the devil’s offer, we, too, must reject the idea that liberation can come at the cost of another’s oppression.
In each instance, Jesus resists, choosing faith, integrity, and truth over convenience, approval, or power. This is the call to all who are fighting for justice today: to stand firm, to refuse to be erased, and to resist the forces that seek to dehumanize and oppress.
Reclaiming Scripture for Liberation
Lent is not just about giving things up—it’s about choosing transformation. It’s about rejecting the systems that harm us and stepping into truth, even when the world tries to push us into silence.
For LGBTQ+ people, this means:
Rejecting the voices that demand we justify our existence.
Standing firm in our identities, even in the face of opposition.
Committing to justice for those who are still in the wilderness.
For allies, this means:
Resisting apathy. Stand in your faith. Speak up, donate, protest, and fight against laws that strip LGBTQ+ rights.
Show up for those who are vulnerable. Make sure your churches, workplaces, and communities are truly affirming.
Challenging harmful theology. The Bible has been used as a weapon against the marginalized and oppressed for far too long—it’s time to reclaim it as a force for justice.
LGBTQ+ people are pressured to conform to oppressive systems—to shrink themselves for acceptance, to fit neatly into what society deems acceptable. Politicians exploit this by pitting communities against each other—offering false security if certain marginalized groups are left behind. But queer liberation cannot come at the expense of other marginalized people. Freedom is collective.
The Temptation of Christ isn’t just an ancient story—it’s a modern blueprint for how we resist oppression, reclaim our faith, and walk toward liberation. Jesus came out of the wilderness stronger. So will we.
This Lent, let us choose resistance, renewal, and justice.
As above. So below. Amen. Take care of yourselves and take care of each other.